Red Carpet

Red Carpet

Accidentally finding myself an A-List blogger again, some very nice people asked me if I would like to go to the London premiere of the gore-fest that is the Spartan war movie 300; and could I, if I liked it, write a review?

All casual like, and trying not to sound too keen, I virtually ripped their arms off for the tickets.

So, Thursday night, and I am joined by Tom, and together we milk the red carpet for all we are worth, waving at a bemused crowd and offering them autographs before being told to stop.

A film premiere is, it turns out, a rather excellent and completely over-the-top event that defies all logic and completely buggers up large parts of Central London just so a few hundred people can go watch a movie of an evening.

So good in fact, that I encourage you all to beg, borrow and steal in order to experience just once in your life.

Lordy, it had just about everything in a Leicester Square bursting at the seams: a large, excitable crowd of celeb-spotters; the full red carpet treatment featuring a number of lightly-oiled young men with very few clothes but unnervingly realistic weaponry; a meet-and-greet with the director, producers and stars (all fully-dressed, not lightly-oiled at all); all the popcorn you can steal; and a big, loud hack-and-slash-fest of an action movie that you can show you granny, if you want to send her to an early grave.

We left with just one word on our lips: "Wow."

OK, and "What the blummin' hell was that all about?" and "I want to do it again."

A hint for these occasions: When the star-struck celeb-spotters grab you on the red carpet and ask "Are you famous?", you sign your autograph, say "Yes. Yes I am", and then flee. I signed as Aled Jones. Poor, poor Aled.

Review coming Monday. Nine severed limbs out of ten.